


According to thy Word

by Redring91



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst and Humor, Anxiety, Asexual Relationship, Biblical References, Can I hear a Wahoo, Communication Failure, Complications that arise when your older brother is your Hellish boss, Confessions, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley-centric (Good Omens), During Canon, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Footnotes, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical References, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Queen lyrics, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Author thinks they're amusing, The Devilishly Brilliant Potato Infestation, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, The return of the Feathered Serpent, There'll be paperwork!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 13:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20136331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redring91/pseuds/Redring91
Summary: -Every angel possesses the ability to use the celestial Word.Aziraphale’s Word unconsciously layers his speech with feeling, enhancing the existing ambiance around him. He’s largely oblivious to the scope of its impact.Almost every demon burned through their Word when they Fell.Crowley’s Word remains curiously unaltered by his Fall, retaining its full strength and potency. He’s the only one to know the truth about the extent of its power.-And the Word is this: Aziraphale unknowingly and unintentionally becomes almost entirely responsible for the reputation of the demon Crowley.-





	According to thy Word

**Author's Note:**

> -
> 
> Chapter Summary:
> 
> And the Word is this: Aziraphale unknowingly and unintentionally becomes almost entirely responsible for the reputation of the demon Crowley.
> 
> -
> 
> I love these ineffable idiots. They mean so much to me. I’m pretty sure I’ve been waiting my whole life to write this.
> 
> -

-01-

_“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.” – Proverbs 25:11_

-

The spoken word is a curious thing. Curious, and _powerful_.

It began, as most things in the time Before did, with the Almighty. LET THERE BE LIGHT, She said: and there was light. These four words shaped the origins of creation, and so it should be no surprise that they will be used again much later in this story as a metaphor for the impact the spoken word can have.

When creating the angels, the Lord gave them the gift of the celestial Word too. It was not the only aspect of power they were bestowed with, but the pieces of Her Word were akin to the heart of each being, and thus there was a potency to be found there. The angels didn’t realise this at first, of course. Language is something that evolves and changes over the course of time, its nuances becoming noticeable only once there are points of comparison to be made.

If there was a pivotal example in the time Before which demonstrated the celestial resonance of the spoken word, it would not be a Word of God, as perhaps would be expected. Nor was it a prelude to the conflict that would soon take place amongst the host. Instead, it is this:

It is the day in which the stars are being made, and occurs in a quiet moment between the Lord and an angel. The angel’s name as it was in the time Before is not strictly relevant* at present, as he will come to be known by other names later.

[*In the sense that it’s an angelic name, and thus becomes redundant as a form of address. However, as it’s not infeasible to speculate that this angel was in fact an archangel, it does remain contextually relevant as this tale unfolds.]

The angel considers the stars that hang before them, stardust still glistening on the tips of his wings. When he speaks, he also uses four words, which is a nice narrative parallel. He frames them in a light tone of careful longing.

“Shall we make more?”

This is not the first question* ever to be asked, but it’s the first one of what will be many from this particular angel.

[*The first question was voiced by another, not long after the light was separated from the darkness. “If I am the Lightbringer, then surely the light must belong to me?” Perhaps uttering this question aloud gave voice to all seven sins simultaneously, or perhaps it laid the foundation to persuade others that the road ahead was laid with good intentions.]

The Almighty waits for the angel to elaborate.

“Well, why not?” The angel says, smiling as he gathers some stardust on his fingertips. “It’d be a shame to let all this go to waste. There’s still so much potential.” He finds the stars beautiful; his eyes are luminous as he gazes out at the binary star hovering opposite. Excitedly, he says, “imagine, how many stars there could be if the universe was endless?”

Curious, and powerful.

The Almighty smiles at the angel in an ambiguous way, layered with so much meaning it’s difficult to describe it in words.* They resume the work, with the angel focusing his talents on building a new nebula.

[*One might say it’s ineffable.]

And on that day, it transpired that an infinite universe was created.

If a comparison was to be drawn between the universe and a game of poker* then the significance of this example would be presented in the following manner: in a game where the players have already placed their bets and the cards have already been dealt, and the dealer has neglected to mention there are wildcards in play at all; this wildcard will be associated with speech play** and perception.

[*As such a comparison has been made elsewhere.]

[**This term refers to talking in an attempt to mislead other players about the strength of a hand.]

Of course, if you ask the angels and later the demons, for an example which shows the power of the Word, they will all* respond with the same: the Fall.

[*Excepting the one who denies the power that this word, used in this context, had on him by claiming he sauntered vaguely downwards instead. Falling in another context is an entirely different matter.]

-

It takes a single Word to cast them out.

FALL

And they do.

-

All the demons burned through their affinity for the Word as they Fell, but for a few.

The Devil takes the piece of Word he was given and refashions it into his own Word instead, by folding it in on itself. It begins with him and shall end with him.* Beelzebub is named the first Lord of Hell, and is declared to be the Devil’s eyes and ears; because while the demon can invoke it no longer, Beelzebub can still bear witness to the Word. And then there is the other, whose Word remains curiously unaltered from when he was an angel amongst the stars to when he wriggles his way out of a boiling pool of sulphur as a demon.

[*Satan fails to consider that the power in this statement may cause him problems one day.]

Now named Crawley, his resonance is the reason why he’s the demon to enter the Garden.

-

Crawley slithers over to Eve and tempts her, deliberately using the Word just because he still can. The tempting itself is ridiculously easy, given that the Word is Truth, apparently.* “This apple will give you knowledge,” he says. Eve heeds him. She chooses to take the apple.

[*‘Apparently’ is his own caveat. In the time Before, the Word of God was known to be the Truth; but by the Fall, everyone had decided the Word was Truth universally. Just because he understands the declaration itself is what caused the belief in it, doesn’t mean he personally agrees with the sentiment.]

Perhaps if it had been another demon in the Garden, it wouldn’t have happened the way it did. It, being the trend which will begin upon the demon’s return to Hell. But it _was_ this particular demon, and this demon chooses to strike up a conversation with the Principality guarding the Eastern Gate prior to his return. Crawley’s still curious and still questions.

“It must be bad…Crawley.” Aziraphale reasons. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.”

The angel seems oblivious to the way his statement resonates, curling around his use of Crawley’s name. It makes sense, if the Word is equated to the heart of a celestial being, that _this_ angel – who is driven by what he feels is right* – would unconsciously layer his speech with these feelings. Where Aziraphale is concerned, the use of the Word is less of an announcement and more subliminal; acceptable background noise that merely enhances the existing ambiance.

[*To return to the poker comparison; this wildcard is associated with soft play. Quite prohibited in most card rooms, this term refers to intentionally going easy on a player.]

Crawley, having fallen in an entirely different context, lingers on the wall with Aziraphale for a while. When he does finally return to Hell, he’s a bit taken aback to find all the demons engaging in rather enthusiastic celebrations.

“Crawley!” Dagon declares loudly, grinning sharply. “What a glorious beginning you’ve wrought!”

“Uh, thanks.” Crawley is no less perplexed and looks to Beelzebub. “Should I report…?”

“We heard the news.” Beelzebub leans towards him. “The Word is, your deed today was _bad_. Excellent work.”

Crawley nods slowly. “Right.” He guesses he was worried about nothing then.

-

“Well.” Aziraphale says, still trying to be earnest rather than upset. “At least the rainbow is rather lovely.”

Crawley nods absently, still pondering his earlier communication with Hell. “So, your lot are happy then? No…unexpected commentary?”

Aziraphale slants a puzzled look his way. “Ah, no? Well, I don’t think so. Everything went according to plan. Except for the unicorn, obviously. Gabriel wasn’t too pleased about it, at first.”

“I imagine not.” Crawley looks at him. Curiously, he asks, “what did you tell him?”

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale looks sheepish. “I said I was preoccupied by a nearby demonic presence; which was true! But then Gabriel assumed I’d meant the whole escaped unicorn issue wasn’t an accident; he decided that meant the unicorn as a concept now belonged to Hell. I had to stress why it should still be associated with Heaven for a long while before he agreed to spare the remaining one!”

“…Aziraphale,” he says slowly. “Did you tell Gabriel _I_ released the unicorn?”

“No! Well, not exactly.” Aziraphale pouts. “Gabriel was the one who actually suggested it. I just didn’t think it wise to disagree. I _did_ say you were a wily serpent. But I talked about the unicorn, mostly.”

“Ah.” Understanding hits all at once. Aziraphale had indirectly affirmed the belief that Crawley had been responsible for the unicorn escaping, and the Word about this had spread. He should probably be concerned about this. He’s a demon, so it should really trouble him to find he has a _sensitivity_ to an angel’s frequency. This is something that could get him _into_ a lot of trouble. But the angel is Aziraphale and _concern_ isn’t the term he’d use to describe how he feels about this.

Aziraphale’s looking worried now. “Does it bother you?”

“It’s fine.” He smiles, then lets it curl up into more of a smirk. “My lot thought the same. I got a commendation, actually. The Lords of Hell were impressed that I’d not only managed to reclassify an entire species to mythical status, but also made it into an icon of debate and disbelief.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Unicorns are to be a symbol of purity and grace!”

Crawley’s smirk broadens. “Keep telling yourself that, angel.”

-

The Olmecs are already practising sacrificing and bloodletting by the time Crawley turns up. He’s horrified. Especially when the shaman takes one look at him and – instead of denouncing him as a demon and causing a panic – declares him the Feathered Serpent and starts exalting him instead, pledging body and soul in service to him.

For Go– for Sa– for _Someone’s_ sake. He’s going to get credit for all this too, isn’t he?* The last thing he needs is to start being worshipped again and send Satan into another sulk.

[*Despite what transpires at this time – which is approximately 400BC – the fact that Crawley was the Feathered Serpent _does_ get recorded in Hell’s files, but not until approximately 180AD. Over a meal in Teotihuacan, Aziraphale remarks that “your Feathered Serpent Pyramid is a _bit_ ostentatious,” and the Word gets around. The demon, who’d been unaware of the pyramid’s name up to this point, responds by making the chief architect think he’s being stalked by snakes for approximately five hundred and eighty minutes, out of spite.]

He figures it’s probably his name. ‘Crawley’ is very snake-ish; it’s likely the reason why everyone assumes anything remotely snake-related _has_ to involve him. When it’s something _bad_, that’s one thing. But he’s not forgotten the squirming he had to do to get out of trouble when the humans decided snakes symbolised _healing_. If he changes his name, at least it will give him some plausible deniability.

And if, when he renames himself Crowley, he accidentally causes a minor environmental disturbance with the emphasis of his Word, well. Causing the mysterious decline of a civilisation is demonic work. More importantly, no more Feathered Serpent nonsense!*

[*Of course, Crowley forgets to account for the fact that when humans move on to other areas, they tend to take pieces of their culture with them.]

The effort is enough that he decides to sleep for the next few hundred years, though.

-

Crowley’s rudely awakened by the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, loudly Proclaiming the Word about a child.

-

Despite the sombre circumstances, she’s* thrilled to see Aziraphale. She’s been looking forward to telling the angel her new name.

[*Christ had shown her nothing but respect. He’d spoken her name and used her current pronouns correctly without prompting. He’d invited her to walk with him a while and did not once mention God in her presence. At their last meeting, he’d smiled sadly at her and said he wished more people were as wise as serpents about the value of knowledge.]

“Mephistopheles?” Aziraphale speculates. “Asmodeus?”

There’s been a lot of talk amongst the humans lately about demons and which attributes they embody. These two names have been uttered frequently and she wonders if that’s why Aziraphale’s picked them. Because Aziraphale, who absorbs ambient noise constantly and therefore doesn’t always actively discern its source, couldn’t _possibly_ have picked these names because the sound of them reminds him of the demon.

Mephistopheles, who collects the souls of those already damned rather than corrupt innocents. Asmodeus, a prince of lust and desire.

She swallows and offers up her name as casually as she can manage.

Later, after the sun has set, in an equally casual way, as if just to see how it sounds, Aziraphale says, “Crowley.”

Crowley can’t help but preen a little.

-

He’s resigned to the fact that the one conversation he had with Caligula is going to be deemed a flaming success by Hell, despite the fact the man’s plenty capable of making awful decisions himself. He’s more disgruntled by the fact he couldn’t implement his own scheme; he’d intended to turn all the palace statues the wrong way around when no one was looking, but the guards were very on edge already. He goes looking for alcohol instead.

Aziraphale seeks _him_ out this time. “Let me _tempt_ you to…”

The angel’s excitement, his enthusiasm, slides down Crowley’s spine; the unintentional emphasis on _that_ particular word nearly makes him slide out of his chair. I’d let you tempt me to anything, angel, he thinks but doesn’t say. He wonders how Aziraphale would sound if _deliberately_ trying to tempt him.

They dine on oysters together, and Crowley spends most of the time basking under the cadence of Aziraphale’s voice.

-

They’re in a damp place, their deeds cancelling each other out, and when Crowley voices this sentiment, it’s like a revelation to him. He suggests a mutually beneficial arrangement. Aziraphale says no, of course, and storms off* much to Crowley’s disappointment.

[*Crowley later suspects that the reason the Black Knight’s reputation became so muddled with inconsistent information was because Aziraphale must have been venting to Arthur about him, expressing annoyance whilst still trying to be unfailingly polite.]

-

It’s the year 1135* and Crowley’s in London prior to heading elsewhere for a job. There’s chatter amongst the humans about an angel nearby; he’s hoping Aziraphale will invite him to lunch so he can coax the angel into another discussion about why the two of them collaborating is a sensible idea. Aziraphale’s been less indignant, more exasperated about the suggestion over the last few decades.

[*Late May, in fact.]

But the angel at the Thames isn’t Aziraphale. Crowley takes half a step back in panic, but he’s already been spotted. He forces a smile. “Arariel, isn’t it? Well, aren’t you a fish out of water? Sightseeing?”

Arariel’s smile is the sort of vicious Ligur would approve of. “Crowley. The snake; the apple tempter. Destroying you would surely restore my favour with the senior angels.”

Well, shit. “I don’t suppose you’d be persuaded to forget you saw me?” He affects a shrug. “Only, discorporation would kind of disrupt my plans, see.”

They pay him no notice. “That I would achieve in a mere day what that disgrace for a Principality has failed –”

Crowley’s smile vanishes. “You don’t want to do this,” he warns. His tone is quiet, but something in it makes Arariel falter a moment. “You should leave.”

They narrow their eyes.

Lightning narrowly misses him, striking the Bridge behind him. A fire breaks out, rapidly spreading. Crowley flees, trying to figure out a plan, as Arariel leisurely pursues him across Westminster.

Shit, shit, shit, _shit,_ Crowley thinks as the fire spreads through London. He ducks into a cathedral under construction* on the basis that it’s the last place Arariel will look for him, assuming he was far enough out of range to give them the slip.

[*The Old St Paul’s Cathedral won’t be consecrated for another hundred and five years.]

He discovers he hadn’t been far enough when the wall behind him explodes, throwing him across the room. He ends up sprawled in a raised niche in the wall which will probably hold a statue or a font one day. His limbs uncooperative, he twists around to see Arariel enter the room through the giant gaping hole that wasn’t there before.

A bolt of lightning ricochets to strike the floor towards Crowley’s right, fire crackling lazily over stone.

“Look,” Crowley says, trying to sound reasonable. “You’ve had your fun. But if you leave now, I’ll just forget all about this, yeah?”

Another streak of lightning, this one arcing upwards. The wooden rafters in the roof catch alight.

“You’re a demon,” Arariel says contemptuously. It _never_ sounds like this when Aziraphale says it; this isn’t Arariel stating fact, this is an angel revelling in his lesser nature.

“I’m telling you, I’m not worth the paperwork.” Crowley presses his back against the stone. “And if you think Michael’s going to be impressed by my discorporating–”

Arariel laughs without mirth. “I’m going to _end_ your existence, snake.”

Oh, _fuck_.

Arariel’s next sentence is spoken using the Word. Crowley can feel it building in the air around them like an unseen static charge. “I will render you to your atoms, to your mere essence, and then unto nothingness.” Arariel points, sparks flaring up and clinging to their extended finger as a bolt of lightning arcs forward through the air, aimed at Crowley–

There are two things to bear in mind at this point.

The first being: the Word, as has been mentioned, is celestial. By definition, ‘belonging or relating to heaven,’ and therefore is inherent in angels. As such, demons cannot use the Word. But Crowley, as has also been mentioned, _can_. He’d decided this was because celestial, by definition, also means ‘relating to the sky, or outer space as observed in astronomy;’ and Crowley has always held an affinity for astronomy.

And the second being: there is a difference between using the Word and Proclaiming the Word. Using the Word could be as simple as using a pin to fasten your hand-written message to the board of awareness while exclaiming ‘aha!’ In comparison, Proclaiming the Word is to _become_ the message, whilst the sensation of a hundred thousand pins drive home the experience. Every atom of the angel’s being lights up with celestial energy to empower the Proclamation, feeling the Word reverberate through them as they utter it.* Because this feat carries the notion of ‘divine rapture’ it’s usually only performed within Heaven.** It’s considered worthy of accolade, to be devout enough to muster the strength of will to bear it.

[*In simpler terms – where the Word is a loaded suggestion, a Proclamation is a full-bodied command.]

[**The last time a Proclamation was made on Earth was Gabriel at the beginning of the 1st century, as was mentioned a little earlier.]

Crowley is no longer holy, but his will and Word are just as strong as they’ve always been.

“STAR,” Crowley Proclaims.

Something that lightning and stars have in common is that both are plasma. This streak of plasma heeds the more powerful Word first. It becomes a string of starlight, hovering suspended in mid-air. The other end of that string is still wrapped around Arariel’s finger. Then the plasma commences with heeding the remaining Word.

One singular bolt of lightning is quite hot. The tiny expanse of numerous blue stars, which converge on Arariel as a gravitational anchor, are much hotter. The heat of that starlight renders into Arariel’s atoms. Arariel’s human presenting form and their ethereal form within come apart at the seams, distilling into clear liquid and spilling out beneath where the previous angel of the waters of the earth* had been standing.

[*Henceforth, Arariel’s name came to be invoked as a cure for stupidity; because all angels knew better than to unexpectedly cross paths with the demon Crowley.]

Crowley doesn’t notice most of this, because he’s too busy experiencing the sensation of a hundred thousand pins driving into every atom of his being. He does notice the sudden existence of Holy Water flooding half the room though. He also hadn’t noticed that the force of his Proclamation had shaken the walls until he feels the stone lip he’s braced against start to crumble beneath his weight.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley croaks* just before he tumbles to the floor, dislodging his glasses as he lands. The world around him is a blur, and he wishes he could shut his eyes to block it out. A flaming wooden beam lands a few yards away from him. He scents smoke on his tongue, confirming he still has one, but he’s not entirely sure about the rest of him yet.

[*Because he’s a demon, and so it’s definitely not a prayer of any kind.]

“Crowley?!”

He moans, his head still ringing. The multitude of celestial pins have seemed to transition into more worldly pins and needles, but the sensation is still all-consuming. Gentle hands gather him up. He clings as best he can, burrowing closer to the warmth he feels, and drifts for a while.

“Crowley?”

He attempts Aziraphale’s name and manages the complete thing even if some of the syllables are elongated. He can’t taste smoke anymore, so he thinks they’re somewhere else.

“Crowley. What happened?”

“Ngk.” He feels like a nebula, a spread-out collection of dust, slowly gaining density as the components gather together. “Arariel. Tried to smite me. Word backfired on them.” There’s a pause, then pressure, and oh that’s where his arms are, where Aziraphale’s holding onto them, quite tightly now.

Softly, Aziraphale asks, “are you hurt?”

“Nothing permanent, I think.” He knows astronomy: if he’d lost anything it’d feel like a black hole. Crowley tries to focus on Aziraphale. “Worried about me?” It comes out more wistful than teasing.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale replies kindly,* which is a far more committed answer than Crowley expected.

[*‘Worried’ is an understatement on how Aziraphale felt, when he found Crowley lying motionless in a church that was on fire, only a scant few feet from a pool of Holy Water. ‘Anxious’ may be a more accurate descriptor. ‘Desperately terrified’ is another. If Aziraphale was ever inclined to sleep, the sight would’ve given him nightmares for weeks.]

Crowley curls towards him, resting his forehead against the angel’s arm. “Glad you found me.” Then, puzzled, “how’d you find me?”

“There was a Proclamation –”

Panic grips all Crowley’s senses. He goes rigid. “What,” he hisses, “what did you hear?”

“Well, I – it made me think of you.” Aziraphale sounds a little flustered and taken aback by Crowley’s reaction. “I presume Arariel had identified you?”

“They can’t find out about this,” Crowley babbles, not entirely coherent. “It sounded like me?” If Heaven find out Crowley can Proclaim the Word – then the rest of Aziraphale’s words catch up with him. “Arariel?”

“I didn’t think Arariel ranked highly enough to Proclaim.” Aziraphale’s voice is intentionally soothing in an obvious bid to calm Crowley. “No wonder their Word backfired.”

Crowley remembers then that, as he’s a demon, naturally the angels will think the Proclamation was Arariel’s doing. And it’s not like Michael or Gabriel will recognise his voice anymore anyway. “Right.” But – and his panic returns – but _Satan_ might suspect him – _“Hell will find out”_ – if Crowley loses time recovering from the effort – “they’ll look into it, if I don’t get my job done, and if they find out…” he shudders. Neither side will ever let him on Earth again if they discover this.

And Crowley would never see Aziraphale again.

“Job? What job?”

The conversational tone is one Crowley’s long accustomed to hearing, so it automatically sets him a little more at ease. “Hmm? Have to talk to Henry of Blois, in Glastonbury. Tempt him to support his brother Stephen rather than their cousin Matilda.” The stressing has worn him out; he’s beginning to drift again.

“In Glastonbury? Why are you in London then?”

“Can’t have lunch with you in Glastonbury,” he reasons hazily.

There’s brief silence. Then there’s fingers carding through his hair and that’s nice. “Oh, _Crowley_.” Warmth seeps into him at how Aziraphale makes his name sound. “Get some rest, dear fellow. It’ll be all right.”

Crowley believes him. He lets himself drift away.

-

When he feels more like a whole star instead of a scattered nebula again, Crowley stirs. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale beams at him. “Oh, I’m glad to see you awake again. Are you feeling better? Here, have something to eat.”

Crowley cranes up to get a look at the platter of sliced fruit, and his lip curls up. “Apples?”

Aziraphale pretends to be standoffish, but his own amusement is clear. “I thought you’d appreciate the sentiment.”

“I do.” Crowley takes a slice and sucks it into his mouth. He gets his thoughts in order as he swallows it, then almost chokes. “How long have I been asleep?!”

“Ten weeks.”

“Ten?! Weeks?!”

But before he can work up a proper panic, Aziraphale pats his arm. “Nothing to worry about. You needed rest after the ordeal you’ve been through.”

“But–!”

“And you don’t have to concern yourself about your work schedule.” Aziraphale’s suddenly very intent on the platter of fruit. “It’s taken care of. So, as Hell shouldn’t have any issues with your paperwork, there will be no reason for them to look into this matter. You can, I don’t know, tell them you’ve been thwarting my attempt to find you after Arariel’s Proclamation.”

Crowley stares at him. “It’s – what?”

Aziraphale fidgets with a slice of apple. “The temptation. Henry of Blois, in Glastonbury. I – I took care of it for you.”

“You _what_?” Crowley’s abruptly reminded of standing on the wall of Eden, of Aziraphale’s guilty admittance he gave away his flaming sword, and he falls in love with the angel all over again.

“Well, it’s my job to help those who need it!” Aziraphale insists defensively. “I’ve prevented you from getting into trouble with Hell over this, and that’s a _good_ thing.”

Crowley arranges his sentence in a carefully deliberate way, just in case Satan’s still listening out for his Word. “And someone would say thank you for that.”

Aziraphale softens, smiling at him. “Oh. They’d be most welcome then.” Crowley takes advantage of his distraction to take the segment of apple from Aziraphale’s fingers, and he doesn’t protest as Crowley eats it. “The point is you can report your job was a success.”*

[*When civil war between England and Normandy breaks out shortly before the year’s end, Hell accredits this success to Crowley too.]

“What about Heaven?” Crowley compensates for not having his glasses by staring up at the ceiling. “Gabriel’s bound to know the Proclamation involved me.” He tries to figure out how to word ‘I don’t want you to get into trouble either’ without incriminating himself. “He’ll expect a report from you about it.”

Aziraphale nods and straightens. “I didn’t arrive until after Arariel’s Word backfired, and when I did, I removed you from the church. All of which is true. It should be sufficient.”

Crowley relaxes, letting the tension he’d been holding finally uncoil from him. He turns his gaze back to Aziraphale, and whatever the angel sees in his eyes gives him a firm sense of determination. For the first time that Crowley’s heard, Aziraphale purposely invokes the Word to give weight to a statement.

“Neither Heaven nor Hell will find out exactly how you were involved in this.”*

[*It transpires, in no small part thanks to Aziraphale’s opinions on the matter, that Heaven and Hell’s understanding of the situation becomes as follows: Heaven believe Crowley was unscathed by Arariel’s failed show of power, but that Aziraphale’s Word successfully banished Crowley; and Hell believe Crowley used his Word to destroy Arariel, and then successfully thwarted Aziraphale’s attempt to locate him afterwards.]

Crowley shivers, ducking his head to hide his eyes. He braces against how overwhelmed he is at the show of power, for his sake. At least Aziraphale didn’t use his name, because that would’ve guaranteed he’d do something embarrassing and revealing.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, in a leading tone disguised as an innocent one, “perhaps it _would_ be more efficient if we to coordinate our schedules, so to speak.”

“Oh?” A grin unfurls across Crowley’s face. “How sensible. Shall we discuss this arrangement further then?”

-

Crowley really doesn’t like the 14th century. Primarily because Aziraphale is unhappy throughout most of it; the poor humans wind up suffering all sorts of calamities.

First there’s the Great Famine. Then, what began as some controversy over the line of succession turns into a war,* which Crowley finds personally frustrating for a lot of reasons,** but mainly for ones he can’t discuss with Aziraphale.***

[*Which continues a Hundred Years.]

[**Idiotic rules about gender presentation permitting or denying behaviour is another human invention. When Dagon had reported it was attributed as one of Heaven’s deeds, the whole of Hell had heard Crowley’s emphatic rant about how idiotic he finds the whole thing. Aziraphale had witnessed a similar rant when he’d mentioned Heaven had thought it one of Hell’s deeds.]

[***Crowley is Fallen, his old angelic name revoked because of his nature; he’s a demon who retains the celestial Word. He and Aziraphale may have known each other for thousands of years now, but Crowley knows the angel isn’t ready for a conversation about what Crowley’s nature entitles him to; Crowley doesn’t even think he’s ready for it yet either.]

Then the Black Death strikes. A mistimed joke by a passer-by about rats and snakes spoils an otherwise companionable afternoon. Even the revolt of the dissatisfied peasants, which would usually amuse Crowley, leaves him feeling tired.

Aziraphale assumes Crowley’s hand in most of it, unintentionally lending the Word to get around that Crowley was responsible for the entire 14th Century.* Perhaps contributing to this is the fact that this century is the only period in which Crowley doesn’t bother to correct Aziraphale over the misconceptions.

[*The only thing Crowley was actually responsible for during this time was the Papal Schism, and even that began as a drunken accident. Crowley’s deliberate decision to encourage the chaos in 1409 by tempting an election of a second antipope is the only reason he decided to claim ownership of the initial event too.]

-

He knows it isn’t Aziraphale’s fault. He knows Aziraphale isn’t aware of the power his Word holds, and he knows Aziraphale doesn’t consciously invoke it. He doesn’t blame the angel at all; he knows it’s an inherent quality of who Aziraphale is to feel with all of his senses, and Crowley enjoys it when Aziraphale’s immersed in feeling emotion so fully.

Towards the end of the 15th century, Crowley receives several unexpected communications from Hell in swift succession: the first from Beelzebub, a formal stamp of approval; then from Dagon, congratulation on his method; and then from Satan, who greatly appreciates the Word that Michael has taken personal offence at how often the Inquisition keeps name-dropping the archangel. Even Hastur takes the time to inform Crowley he should perform these sorts of impressive deeds more often.

So Crowley goes to Spain, to see what he’s supposedly done.

He immediately leaves Spain and consumes ten times his body’s weight in alcohol. Then he finds Aziraphale.

“I didn’t do this,” Crowley moans from where he’s sprawled on the floor. “The humans invented it on their own. One little memo and now all of Hell thinks it was me.” Crowley squirms around until he can see Aziraphale. “It wasn’t me, angel. It wasn’t.” His voice quivers. He’s too drunk for this, but he can’t bear to sober up. The humans were _burning_ each other. Crowley’s wings ache. “Tell me you know I wouldn’t?”

Aziraphale looks sad. Crowley feels bad, because that look is his fault. “I believe you,” Aziraphale says gently.

“Was Michael angry?” Crowley rolls onto his back and glares upwards. “A bad-tempered Michael says unkind things. Was Michael mean to you?” Crowley tries to sit up, which results in a lot of flailing limbs before letting them all drop back down as he decides not to sit up because he still wants to glare upwards instead. “None of them should be mean to you,” he mutters. Aziraphale is the best of all of them.

“Michael was more unhappy with you for apparently orchestrating this, than with me for failing to thwart it.” Aziraphale hovers, clearly undecided about whether to help him sit up. “So, I suppose you fooled an archangel? Does that make you feel better?”

Crowley considers this. “Little bit.” Until he sobers up anyway. “More alcohol?”

“I think you’ve had enough, dear.” And Crowley would argue, but Aziraphale’s smile isn’t _all_ sad anymore, so things _are_ a bit better.

-

“He’s not my friend,” Aziraphale stammers. “We don’t know each other.”

This hurts. It always does, but Crowley understands the need for caution. Still, he can’t help but wish that Aziraphale wouldn’t lean on the Word as he says these sorts of things. It’s not like he can say anything about it. He’s a demon, what’s his Word even worth?

He utters a line of verse, not realising he’s still preoccupied with the Word until he notices Shakespeare take to it. Oops. He hopes it ends up in one of the funnier plays.*

[*It ends up in a gloomy one. He watches the tale of Antony and Cleopatra unfold: enemies, who become lovers, who cannot be together, whose tale ends with broken hearts and mutual death. Crowley’s too terrified to examine how much of this came from his Word and which parts were Shakespeare’s own. He feels justified in damning this play with conflicting critical reviews.]

Aziraphale doesn’t notice, of course, so Crowley tells him about his assigned task to tempt a clan leader to steal some cattle.

“Doesn’t sound like hard work.” And it won’t be, for Aziraphale, now that he’s said this.

-

Agnes Nutter, witch, explodes in 1656. Neither Heaven nor Hell are aware of her significance, because most angels and demons consider the world to exist by a certain set of rules. These rules dictate it’s the spoken Word that should warrant their attention.

A human who had the Sight, Agnes Nutter chooses to record her predictions for the future in writing.

Aziraphale, who is very fond of books, believes there is much value to be found in the written words of humans. He later learns of the single written copy of Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Prophecies and considers both the work and the woman who wrote it to be very significant. He hopes to locate the book someday and looks forward to reading it.

Crowley learns of Agnes Nutter and her Prophecies long before Aziraphale ever mentions them to him.

Agnes Nutter would speak her Prophecies aloud as she transcribed them. It’s as she reaches Prophecy number 4 that Crowley becomes aware that she exists, and her Prophecies are entirely correct. Prophecy 4 reads as follows:

_“As penned and spoken, this shalt be minded by one who knoweth the Word as he knoweth the stars. Hark, Fallen one, and heed: the philosopher ere thee did seek an angel. He shalt knoweth better forthwith.”_

At the very moment this entry is being transcribed, Crowley is in the workshop of an ambitious but predominately incompetent alchemist, who was not expecting his summoning ritual would actually work.* Crowley’s quite confused about why there’s a human on the other end of the missive rather than Satan or Beelzebub, who are the only ones who know they can contact him this way.

[*During this century, philosophers often harboured supernatural inclinations towards their studies, believing their work on alchemy could enable them to summon and communicate with angels. And so, in keeping with his incompetence, this alchemist’s summoning _hadn’t_ worked, otherwise Aziraphale would’ve been late for lunch rather than Crowley.]

As Agnes Nutter speaks this Prophecy, Crowley perceives her words – a moment of resonance between two non-angelic beings who understand the complexity of lingering gifts.

Crowley grins slyly at the philosopher whose summons had ‘worked’ because Crowley’s affinity for the Word had pre-empted Agnes Nutter’s message for him. “So. Sought an angel, did you?”

The alchemist makes a terrified whine when the being he summoned then appears to resemble a mass of writhing limbs and scaled flesh,* and promptly faints.

[*Centuries later, Crowley revisits this imagery, leading him to proudly engineer the rise of the Lovecraftian Horror subgenre and the Cthulhu Mythos. It was one of the few presentations Crowley’s delivered to the creatures of Hell which Hastur has understood in its entirety.]

-

Unexpected commendations for ‘outstanding job performance’ are always an excuse to meet up with Aziraphale, to discuss the brilliant work Crowley’s actually been doing instead. He’s got a lot of plans about how to further his little industrial revolution. Humans are clever – they’re bound to be inspired enough to come up with all sorts of clever machines. And imagine the boiling frustrations that will develop from humans being utterly dependant on little machines to do things they could easily achieve themselves!* Not to mention all the opportunities it will give Crowley for wreaking further havoc by inconveniencing them once their dependency takes hold.

[*He’d been a little more selfish in his encouragement of Claude Chappe’s ideas for a semaphore system. Crowley’s looking forward to seeing how this communication technology develops, mainly because it means more opportunities to contact Aziraphale spontaneously to demonstrate each improvement.]

He much prefers his own schemes for industrial revolution than the human’s insane French one. Especially when learning Aziraphale’s locked up in the Bastille instead of safely in London. The angel’s undeniable delight at his arrival is gratifying though.

Despite Aziraphale’s initial assertion that this is all Crowley’s work – which is probably what bought it to Beelzebub’s notice in the first place* – he immediately accepts it was actually the humans. They go through this routine almost every time. Crowley would wonder why Aziraphale still feels it’s necessary to point fingers at him at all, but, well, he _is_ a demon.

[*During Gabriel’s visitation to deliver Aziraphale a reprimand, there was a brief conversation about the revolution occurring in France – if ‘conversation’ is the correct term for Gabriel monologuing his complaints about ‘demonic’ interference causing Heaven difficulties. When Gabriel asked if Aziraphale knew anything about Crowley’s latest activities, Aziraphale danced around giving a proper answer, merely stating the wily demon was undoubtedly up to no good and Aziraphale would thwart his nefarious plans as usual.]

Then Aziraphale supposes he should thank Crowley for the rescue.

His reaction is immediate. “Don’t say that.” If Aziraphale _thanks_ him for a _good deed_ whilst under a _formal reprimand_, the angel’s Word may be enough to draw attention, despite any of Crowley’s denials to the contrary.

Of course, Crowley doesn’t go without scrutiny on occasion himself either. It’s inevitable that one of them is bound to slip up eventually – likely Crowley, because he’s far more vigilant about keeping Aziraphale out of trouble than himself. He may need to start formulating some contingency plans, in case Hell ever come knocking.

-

Crowley arrives with chocolates to celebrate the opening of Aziraphale’s bookshop and is dismayed to find the angel already has company: Gabriel and Sandalphon. Contrary to Aziraphale’s obvious wishes, they want to recall him to Heaven and station Michael on Earth instead.

This, Crowley asserts, is unacceptable.

Why they suddenly feel the need to swap a Principality for an Archangel he isn’t sure. If the suggestion was made in the 1100s, then he’d figure it was to do with the whole Proclamation incident, but Crowley hasn’t done anything* – or even been assumed to be responsible for anything** – lately which would warrant archangels keeping an ear out for him.*** He doesn’t think so anyway.

[*Unbeknownst to Crowley, this isn’t strictly true. Two years earlier, Crowley and Aziraphale had been bemused to find they’d _both_ been tasked to influence Edward Jenner into progressing with his research. The coin toss had seen Crowley carry out the deed and he’d lent his Word to the effort, reasoning Heaven would expect a show of power for the blessing to counter the equally expected demonic interference; and Hell, of course, would anticipate his taking steps to counter the angel in turn. But Crowley had failed to take into consideration the impact his Word would have on medicinal matters – that is to say, matters of _healing_.]

[**Word of the success in using injections of _variolae vaccinae_ – cow pox – to protect against smallpox reached the higher management of both sides quite quickly. Satan presumed Crowley was being ironically dramatic on purpose and, satisfied enough by the number of humans who already opposed the idea, decided to overlook the healing aspect, provided it didn’t happen again anytime soon.]

[***The archangels in Heaven were impressed enough by Aziraphale that they decided to present him with a medal, to honour this prestigious achievement. But they also considered that surely an archangel would be better suited to oppose a demon as prone to being involved in potent circumstances as Crowley is.]

He follows Gabriel to the tailors. This is probably a terrible idea, and definitely a very risky one, but Aziraphale is worth it. Crowley orchestrates a pantomime performance for Gabriel’s benefit and hopes the archangel is unimaginative enough not to notice when Crowley carefully begins to draw on his Word.

“It’s as if the forces of Heaven have a champion here on Earth,” he stresses. He calls Aziraphale his nemesis and claims the Word from Hell is he’s being sent back to Heaven; Gabriel and the other archangels know Satan held his own Word after he Fell. Then Crowley delivers his next sentence with utmost conviction. “Only Aziraphale knows my ways well enough to thwart them.”

And Gabriel, unsettled without being able to discern why, changes his mind. He departs with Sandalphon after assuring Aziraphale his part in this is important and to keep up the good work.

Aziraphale is enchanted by the chocolates. “Oh, these are divine.”

“Oi,” Crowley protests with a mock scowl. “They’re _sinful_.”

Aziraphale tuts at him. “But really Crowley, that was awfully risky of you, loitering around outside like that while they were still around. What if they’d seen you?”

He shrugs, smiling slyly. “All worked out for the best, though, didn’t it?”

-

Crowley hasn’t had a temptation go this wrong in a long time.

He thought he’d been clever, making small talk with William Blake about Paradise Lost while getting the man to sign the special edition of his Songs of Innocence and Experience collection.* Admittedly, it was an indulgence, to be able to freely discuss how unfair it was that those in favour of Heaven tend to discourage finding joy in earthly pleasures; and that consenting lovers should be free to express their desires without the fear or shame of perceived sin.

[*Crowley had actually commissioned some of the poems in this collection. Specifically, The Angel, and The Garden of Love. He prefers to claim their mood as ambiguous, rather than one-quarter hopeless, three-quarters yearning. He fails to mention any of this to Aziraphale when gifting him the book.]

Crowley had been intrigued when Blake had contacted him, stating he’d created an illustration to Milton’s work specifically with Crowley in mind. Initially, he’d been quite looking forward to seeing it.

“Look,” Crowley says to the open ledger book in front of him. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Words burn into existence across the page, shimmering in red ink. I WONDER IF I SHOULD BELIEVE THAT CROWLEY, Satan writes.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Crowley insists, because it’s true. “And besides, you’re possibly overreacting.” He can’t shift the tension that’s coiled in him, the stiff set of his shoulders. He feels inches away from shedding out of his own skin. “You weren’t all that bothered during that art movement in Italy a few centuries back, about the human’s works, and _that_* one was worse than this!”

[*Crowley had a genuine alibi in Leonardo da Vinci at the time, when Satan had demanded an explanation concerning the painting by the human artist Raphael depicting St Michael slaying the Devil. He’d managed to avoid a reprimand by a handful of literal scales. A lesser demon had been discorporated and tossed into a deep pit over the misfiled paperwork.]

AND YOU THINK THIS IS BETTER, THEN?

“I’m not saying that; I’m saying, I can’t help it if a human paints something about me, then names it –”

SATAN SPYING ON ADAM AND EVE, AND RAPHAEL’S DESCENT INTO PARADISE.

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “It’s not like I told him to call it that.” Oh, so it’s _fine_ when the Devil gets credit for the apple, but _Hell_ forbid Satan gets relegated to a cameo as the snake while the archangel Raphael gets all the glory. “It’s just human art. What’s the problem?”

There’s a pause. The writing etches itself slowly and maliciously. YOU’VE GOTTEN NO SMALL AMOUNT OF BENEFIT OUT OF THE HEALER’S NAME LATELY. FEELING NOSTALGIC, ARE WE?

“For what?” Crowley’s irritation begins to take precedence over his fear. “My ‘descent’ – _descent!_ Or did you miss that part? Shouldn’t you be pleased with the whole I’ve-landed-a-place-in-_your_-paradise angle?”

YOU’D HAVE TO _EARN_ IT. _CRAWLEY._

“_Crowley,_” he hisses, forgetting himself for a terrible moment. “_My name is Crowley_. I’d tell you to go to Hell, but you’re already there.” And then he remembers who he’s talking to and thinks, _fuck_.

Steam scorches out from the ledger, slamming into Crowley and sending him careening backwards off his chair. He tumbles to the ground, keening, and curling up on himself. His perception shifts – for a moment he’s Falling, he’s thrashing, drowning in boiling sulphur. Then he’s still, hands pressing his sunglasses against his face.

He takes a shuddering breath he doesn’t technically need just to taste the clean air in the room.

Dragging himself up onto his feet, he rights the chair and sits in front of the ledger again. He doesn’t apologise. He wouldn’t mean it anyway. Trying to salvage the situation, he uses a delicate and deliberate form of address, and hopes Satan’s in the right sort of mood to receive it. “Okay, so, maybe sometimes things spiral a little out of my control, _brother_. You know that. How about I organise a brilliant scheme involving foodstuffs, in your honour, to make it up to you?”

There’s silence. It’s worryingly long.

NO APPLES.

“Course not. Won’t even be fruit.” Crowley curls his hands into fists to stop them shaking. “Rice, maybe. Potatoes. Something plentiful, you know?”

DO TRY YOUR BEST TO IMPRESS ME.

“Of course!”

AND MIND HOW YOU GO ABOUT YOUR TEMPTING, _BROTHER_. BECAUSE I’D BE _DISPLEASED_ TO THINK YOU WERE BEING NOSTALGIC AGAIN. I GIVE YOU MY – there’s an ominous pause – _WORD_ ON THAT.

Quietly, he replies, “if I’m going to be nostalgic, it won’t be for an old name.” In a more faux-cheerful tone, he says, “guess I should get back to work. Scheming to be done and all.”

REPORT BACK SOON, DARLING. I’D HATE TO HAVE TO RECALL YOU. The red ink spreads out to fill the entire page, bleeding through into the rest of the ledger.

Crowley shudders. On Earth perhaps he’d stand a chance against whoever they sent to collect him. But if he’s in Hell, not even the Word would protect him from their collective wrath. He’ll need to keep his head down and his deeds more traditional for a few decades. And then he’s going to take steps to have a proper insurance policy in place.

-

His potato scheme is the most elaborate effort he’s thus used his Word for on Earth.*

[*Single Proclamation aside.]

First, he ingratiates his way into the graces of governor Kapodistrias, offering genuinely useful council to gain credibility. Once he’s earned a solid rapport, he convinces the man that introducing the cultivation of the potato will be extremely beneficial to the people of Greece.* It takes a few well-timed suggestions and then the governor becomes eager to implement the scheme by distributing the potatoes for free.

[*Crowley previously enacted a similar scheme – purely for fun – with Frederick the Great, who came to be known as the ‘Potato King,’ so he knows the idea has merit.]

Then Crowley sows suspicion and reluctance amongst the people about the offer. They grumble about their doubts and no one accepts a single potato. A frustrated and disappointed Kapodistrias therefore appreciates it when Crowley offers to take direct charge of the operation.

Crowley positions the entire shipment on display in the docks and places it under constant guard. Then he sets about tempting the people’s interest in it.

Finally, someone asks the important question. “They valuable?”

“Very,” Crowley replies.

Barely an hour later, Crowley has coaxed enough greed in the district to prompt the first theft. He prevents the guards from noticing. He further prevents them from noticing the subsequent thefts too; the guards all end up unsure about what task they’d been assigned in the first place. Kapodistrias is ecstatic when Crowley informs him all the potatoes have been circulated, but Crowley’s too conflicted to properly appreciate the compliment.*

[*Crowley has a complicated history with potatoes, stemming from his very first interaction with them. He’d gotten into a competitive food fight with some Peruvians in 2500BC and lost. Spectacularly. But seeing Aziraphale struggling not to laugh at him had made the whole thing worth it.]

When he submits his report, Crowley titles his memo ‘The Devilishly Brilliant Potato Infestation.’ And then he waits. He’s done a decent enough job over the years in leading Hell to believe he nicknamed them the ‘Devil’s apples’ because they’re the patron foodstuff of evil. Using apples without actually using apples is the sort of blatant appropriation the Devil favours. Hopefully, the scheme will be enough.

But while his paperwork is pending review, Europe is hit with a catastrophic outbreak of blight and subsequent potato famine which, in all honesty, neither Crowley nor the humans are at fault for. The fallout results in millions perishing from either sickness or starvation.

Crowley feels numb and very, very guilty, because he knows what’s coming.

The communication he gets returned is simply: YOU CERTAINLY KNOW HOW TO CAUSE HELLISH CHAOS. I’M IMPRESSED, CROWLEY.

Crowley hates how relieved he is by the verdict.

-

He asks Aziraphale to meet him. He’s never asked for something before, not like this. He writes his request down, because it’s too dangerous for him to speak the Words aloud.

Holy Water.

Aziraphale refuses.

“_Fraternising?_” He repeats Aziraphale’s Word with the same emphasis the angel had given it. It feels no less like broken glass coming off his tongue than it did entering his ears. Something inside him shatters. “I don’t need you,” he lies, as Aziraphale turns away from him.

Fraternising.

He wants to scream until his voice gives out. He wants to cry for forgiveness he’ll never earn.

Crowley sleeps instead.

-

When Crowley awakens over half a century later, he suspects Aziraphale’s been upset enough to consider him responsible for every bad deed the humans have come up with during his nap. Hell have never regarded him so tolerantly before.

Crowley looks up at the stars. “Why?” He asks Her angrily, but he knows he’ll never get an answer.

-

Crowley watches the salesman’s eyes slide over one of the vehicles without seeing it, and immediately calls him out. “What about this one?”

The salesman is immediately embarrassed, as Crowley intended. “Ah. No. We meant to pull that one off the floor. It’s got a fault, you see. It’s a minor thing, but we do strive for perfection here!” He chuckles awkwardly, but Crowley doesn’t find this funny anymore.

“I want this one.”

The salesman’s brow furrows. “Oh, but we have many other, _better_ vehicles, sir.” He’s frustrated at the prospect of losing out on a higher sale.

Crowley thinks about failing to meet standard and being discarded. “This one.” He thinks of Aziraphale refusing to meet his gaze. The broken sound of Crowley’s name, still haunting him, and a scrap of paper burning on water. He aches. “I’ll pay twice its value. But I want this one.”

-

He discovers he was credited for starting the last Great War, when he’s also given credit for the start of a new one. Crowley decides that if he’s going to be part of this war, then he’s going to choose his own blasted side.

His paperwork with MI5 lists his name as ‘Anthony J Crowley,’ and he’s the best double-cross agent they have.

“You’ve a natural talent for this,” Masterman comments respectfully during a briefing.

Crowley smiles flatly. “Thousands of years of practise.”

-

He’s sprawled as casually as he can be on the uncomfortable office chair, his feet propped up on the desk, pretending it’s for the aesthetic and not because they still hurt.* He flicks idly through one of the files as he waits.

[*“Consecrated ground or not,” Crowley had declared to himself, his Words fierce, “I’m walking into this church.”]

“Just wanted to clear up some inconsistencies regarding your report,” Dagon says, all business-like.* Hastur is loitering on the other side of the room, eyeing him suspiciously. Crowley’s pretending to ignore Ligur, lurking menacingly somewhere behind him, refusing to give the other demon the satisfaction that comes with being considered a threat.

[*Crowley thinks he should’ve expected this. Dagon’s job is to balance the files. Consecration dampens demonic defences and heightens angelic receptors; even if there’d been an equal amount of good and bad deeds, this report would’ve flagged as lacklustre on Crowley’s part.]

“Of course.”

Dagon drums sharp fingernails against wood, tracing the tip of a pen over the page. “For what reason did you venture near consecrated ground?”

Crowley grins at the distressed sound Hastur makes at the mere idea. “Eh, you know me. Caught word of some serious trouble, and I couldn’t _not_ get involved.”*

[*Information had reached him about ‘Mr Fell’ and ‘books of prophecy’ and ‘Nazi spies.’ Crowley had nearly discorporated on the spot out of sheer anxiety. He’d dropped everything to make the rendezvous; compromising four open investigations which were only later resolved because the spies were inexplicitly tempted to hand themselves in to the authorities.]

“You’ve certainly done excellent work with your human agents lately.” There was never a question of Hell assuming the Nazis were working for him – Aziraphale’s comment within the church merely reinforced the belief. Dagon scratches notes in the margin. “The angel, Aziraphale. He was aware of your activities?”

“Yes. That do-gooder angel is always looking to, uh, do good.” Crowley tilts his head down, eyes fixed on Dagon. He needs to be careful. “I surprised him. My mission was successful.” He has to speak only the truth: if the report is given to Beelzebub to sign off on, and Beelzebub finds any reason to doubt him, the report may be forwarded onto the next rung of authority.

Hastur frowns. “And what about the…” he squirms, and sucks in a breath which is more of a slurp, wet and rattling. “Holy Water?”

It had only taken a small lapse of attention. He’d been distracted, by the agony in his feet, by seeing Aziraphale for the first time since their argument, by their discussion about the additions to his name. He’d seen the font, hadn’t thought about how the holiness of the surrounding atmosphere would amplify his speech, and the two words had slipped free before he could catch them.

“Was it connected to the ‘miracle’ you were entangled with?” Dagon asks.

The bomb had been balanced by their survival – had they not been on consecrated ground, the deeds would’ve cancelled each other out, as per usual. Crowley’s choice to save Aziraphale’s books had exceeded his quota in a significant way.

He has no regrets.

Crowley delivers his statement as a separate fact, not as an answer to their questions, because even though it’s still the truth, it’s about a different church and a different angel. “The Holy Water _was_ the angel’s doing; I suppose my avoiding it might count as a ‘miracle’ given I was in a church.” He attempts to change the subject. “Come on, guys. What’s with the interrogation?”

“Oh, this isn’t an interrogation,” Ligur assures him, stepping in closer to loom ominously. “You’d know if it was. You’d not be able to talk around all your screaming.”

Crowley forces an awkward smile. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you just kill the angel?” Ligur complains, scrutinising Crowley distrustfully. “You’ve killed one before.”

“He’s _my_ angel, and I’ll circle him as _I_ please.” Crowley hisses lowly from behind bared teeth, signalling his territory. He reminds himself he doesn’t want to bite Ligur; the other demon would taste disgusting, and it really wouldn’t help the situation. Ligur grimaces, his chameleon aspects changing hue reflexively, even though he’s largely unimpressed by Crowley’s uncharacteristic response. But he does move back out of Crowley’s space. Crowley addresses Dagon again, tone glib again. “In summary: I dropped a bomb on a church; some humans died.” He pauses. “Their souls will know nothing but misery now.”*

[*The bunch of halfwits had threatened Aziraphale, and so Crowley had no reservations about bestowing them with his Word: “you won’t enjoy dying, definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.” Sometimes the truth is the most terrifying thing of all.]

“Oh, it was indeed exceptional work.” Dagon agrees. “Only, it seems there was also suggestion you were somehow involved in an act of…”

“Kindness.” Hastur’s pronunciation is the verbal equivalent of holding something abhorrent between two fingers to keep it as far away from you as possible.

Crowley pulls a face. “Shut up,” he says, with none of the affection he’d used with Aziraphale. He’d known it was a risk, not denying the sentiment at the time, but after the things they’d said during their last meeting Crowley had been rather desperate for some positive reinforcement.

“So,” Hastur continues, cautiously, “you didn’t do something…nice?” There’s a low predatory sound from within Ligur’s throat. “Just to be clear.”

They have no proof of this, regardless of whatever rumours they’ve heard, so he thinks he can chance a bluff now.* “Does it seem like I’m the sort of demon who’d go around doing anything _nice?_ But, if you want to be _clear_ about this, I could organise an official assembly with Lord Beelzebub and the Dark Council. Give them my Word about all this.”

[*On the way back to the bookshop, Crowley had briefly pulled over to hand a memo to one of the MI5 runners, reporting on the deceased status of the three spies. Aziraphale had been quietly astounded to discover he was working in counterintelligence, staring down at his bag of books. When he’d asked what would happen if Hell found out, Crowley had replied, “my reputation’s bad enough to let me sneak a minor indiscretion past them, if it’s only my Word against theirs.”]

His Word won’t be enough if they call his bluff and discover he holds genuine affection for Aziraphale; it would take all of his Word to prevent the information leaking to Heaven. Hell would have no trouble destroying him after that.

But Hastur swallows the bait and backs down. “Oh, no, that seems unnecessary.”

“I agree,” Dagon comments indifferently. “There’s no reason to take it any further, since your paperwork is now in order.” Dagon’s always prioritised being the Lord of the Files over being the Master of Torments. “You can go.”

“Great.” Crowley swings his feet down onto the floor, refraining from wincing through sheer willpower, and hefts himself out of his chair. “Drop us a line if the Dark Council _do_ want a Word.” He flutters his fingers in farewell at the scowling Ligur as he departs.

He _really_ needs to get his hands on some Holy Water. But he won’t involve Aziraphale again.

-

Aziraphale gives it to him anyway, affirming its quality to be “the holiest.”

Crowley’s overwhelmed. He feels too small to contain all his feelings. There are mere inches between them, and he yearns for that space to shrink further, until it’s gone.

“Anywhere you want to go,” he offers, and it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made. Anywhere, he thinks. Anything for you; anything you want; everything I am. I love you, he thinks, and he’s never been this close to voicing it.

Aziraphale must feel the weight of his declaration, regardless of whether he discerns the emotion behind it.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

These words are strangely devoid of any celestial echo. Perhaps that’s why Crowley’s heart breaks in a far more human way.

Alone in his Bentley, Crowley stares down at the tartan patterned thermos flask. Perhaps one day, he thinks, clinging to the earlier thread of their conversation. A picnic. The Ritz. Crowley gingerly sets the flask aside. Anything you want, angel, he thinks again, even if it’s further space and more time.

-

It’s a little discouraging, to be faced with the largely unimpressed mood of the room as he’s giving his M25 presentation. He’s put a lot of effort into it, and if it’s well received Hell’s likely to leave him be for the next few decades. There’s been signs that the workload distribution is about to increase and he’s hoping to avoid getting caught up in the rush.

There’s probably no harm in using his Word to lend some dramatic flair.

“_Odegra_ means ‘Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds.’ Can I hear a wahoo?”

He doesn’t get the wahoo, but does seem to engender audience interaction, because Hastur raises his hand.

-

The phrase ‘to put your heart into it’ is used to describe when one commits to an undertaking with wholehearted effort. Often, ‘heart’ is used synonymously with ‘soul’ – that is to say, the core essence of one’s being is entirely focused on the matter at hand. With enough imagination, one could consider that putting one’s heart _into_ something, could give heart _to_ something.

The first Queen song to be played within the confines of the Bentley is ‘I’m in Love with my Car.’

Crowley, who’s rather fond of all the band’s music – including the ones he didn’t unintentionally inspire Freddie and the boys to write – sings along with loud enthusiasm, pouring his heart into the lyrics.

_“When I’m holding your wheel,”_ he sings, as he steers exuberantly around a bend. _“Gotta feel for my automobile,”_ he sings, with great feeling. _“All I hear is your gear,”_ he sings, as he encourages the volume to rise. _“Don’t have to listen to no run of the mill talk jive,”_ he sings, basking in his appreciation for Queen.

The Bentley is Crowley’s car and has long since been taken by his Word. It takes heart to these lyrics too. The word ‘gear’ has several definitions, including ‘equipment or apparatus that is used for a particular purpose.’ The Bentley’s music is its voice; and it immediately becomes fluent in Queen, driven by the passion of Crowley’s current performance.

While the Bentley may continue to use other forms of music* sporadically, Queen gets adopted as its first language.

[*The ‘run of the mill’ talk and news on the radio remains the channel for communications with Hell.]

The Bentley isn’t the only possession of Crowley’s which responds to his Word.

For centuries, whenever bored or irritable, he tended to loiter around nurseries or orchards – hissing insults at lacklustre performers or suggesting flora bloom or bear fruit out of season, just to sow confusion. A passing fancy to pass judgement, he maintains. When he hears about talking to plants, he immediately obtains a selection and fills a room in his apartment with them.

Crowley knows he harbours a lot of unresolved anger and pain. And given the circumstances of his existence, he doesn’t have much opportunity in which to vent these feelings safely. Heaven weren’t ever interested in a Fallen’s claims of unfair dismissal; Hell responds to hints of job dissatisfaction with torturous punishment; and he’s certainly not going to risk unleashing such raw negatively on any humans.

And there’s absolutely no way he’s going to burden Aziraphale, who can literally glow with happiness, with this.

But his plants will listen to him – and are terrified enough to ignore when he accidently tells them to ‘be’ instead of ‘grow’ when he’s over-projecting.

_“Grow better!”_

They do.

-

The bell above the door tinkles as it’s opened. She sets her pen against the bottom of her lip and looks over as Branson enters, saying, “my secretary will have you fill out the necessary forms while I fetch the books.”

Aziraphale’s forced smile of insincere politeness falters at the sight of her. He blinks in surprise. “Certainly,” he responds absently.

“Miss AJ,” Branson splays his fingers on the desk, posturing. “If you could fetch–”

She’s already on her feet, gathering the papers. “Forms 1-B, 1-4, and R-25. I have them here.” She sets them on the desk in front of Aziraphale, offering him a demure smile. “Mr Fell?”

“Ah, thank you, dear.” They both watch Branson disappear through the doorway into the back office. Aziraphale turns back to consider her as she leans against the desk. “What are you doing here, Crowley?”

“Ruining the man’s career.” She grins at the disapproving frown this earns her. “Oh, come on, angel. He’s a nasty piece of work and you know it. He’s bringing it on himself, I’m just creating the ideal atmosphere for it.”

Aziraphale, who’s been doing nothing but complain about Branson’s rudeness for the last three weeks, merely sighs. “And just what sort of terrible deeds have you been performing to this end?”

Crowley starts ticking them off on her fingers. “The photocopier keeps jamming every seventh copy; the black and coloured ink run out at different intervals; his phone keeps accepting a phantom call every three hours and stops ringing before he answers it; he’s lost twelve pens already; his lunch disappears every odd day; the heating’s broken; and his coffee goes stone cold after his first taste.” Crowley invented menial office mishaps, she’s a professional at implementing them.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t most of those issues simply get referred back to you?”

She pulls a face. “Well, yeah. But Branson’s about four inconveniences away from being pissed off enough into thinking the building’s cursed, which means he’ll sign it over to his wife when she submits her divorce papers next week. She’s a jewellery artist.” Crowley taps a painted fingernail to one of her snake earrings. “And her brother’s a painter. This space would make a decent studio for them both.”

Aziraphale smiles at the earrings, but then his brow furrows. “I didn’t know he was married. He, well. He made mention he was interested in a young lady named Lydia?”

“He was.” Crowley’s smile is unpleasant. “She wasn’t. Hence why I’m the new temporary help. Lydia’s his fourth secretary to ask the agency to reassign her.” Aziraphale immediately looks dismayed and Crowley clicks her tongue. “I’ll give you their names, you can miracle them up something nice.” She pretends not to see how Aziraphale beams at her and turns a business card over to start writing on the back. “Mrs Branson’s sure he’s been unfaithful, but she needs proof to file against him.”

“Proof.” Aziraphale repeats. His eyes flit over Crowley’s form.

“Not me!” Crowley’s face feels very warm, and she hopes she’s not blushing. “He’s got a meeting with his mistress next Tuesday. And it’d be a _damned_ shame, should his wife _and_ a pair of investors happen by to see him around the same time.”

“Oh, I see.” Aziraphale sounds relieved, which makes Crowley look back up. “I thought he might be bothering you, if he gave all his other secretaries trouble. And, um.” There’s definitely a flush to his cheeks. “Well, I know you don’t take on _those_ sort of assignments, but you’re very…”

“Tempting?” Crowley props her chin on her hand, still gazing up at the angel. “Branson would blame a sheep for being too tempting, if he was so inclined. Don’t fret, angel. He’s paid me no more attention then I usually get.”

Aziraphale isn’t reassured by this. “You always tend to attract attention.” She considers this, wondering if this includes Aziraphale’s attention. In any case, such attention is always about aspects of human presentation. There’s nothing appealing about Crowley’s demonic features; her yellow slitted eyes, her scales, her black wings. “But regardless of how tempting you are, that’s no excuse for harassment.”

Solemnly, she replies, “I promise, he’ll suffer Hell if he tries.”

Aziraphale tuts lightly. “I know you can handle yourself, but I believe it’s common for people to seek divine intervention in such cases. So, you will let me know, if he does give you any trouble?”

“You’re such a gentleman,” she purrs and Aziraphale rolls his eyes. As the approaching footsteps near, he snaps his fingers and the paperwork sitting on the desk is abruptly filled out. “Wonderful, Mr Fell. The weather looks set to take a turn for the worse. I’m about to clock off, if you’d like a lift back to your bookshop?”

“How could I refuse such a courteous offer?”

Branson scowls as he sets the rare books Aziraphale’s been after down on the countertop, with a little more force than is strictly necessary, prompting Aziraphale’s I-am-pretending-I-enjoy-customer-interaction smile to reappear. Crowley pulls a face at Aziraphale for the ‘courteous’ comment when Branson isn’t looking, which earns her a more genuine smile.

Branson gathers up the forms. “I assume there’s no issues with the paperwork, Miss AJ?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’ in the way she knows Branson hates.

“The books are yours then,” he tells Aziraphale curtly, leaking copious amounts of jealousy and contempt. “I’m sure you can manage but do mind your step on the way out, Mr _Fell_. It’s very easy for the inexperienced to trip up and _fall_.” The respective emphasis indicates the intent of his pun, but the significance of the term means something different to his audience.

Aziraphale’s fingers still against the books.

Crowley hears a roaring in her ears. Her pen snaps in her hands. She grits her teeth and snaps her fingers.

There’s a very loud crash outside and an obnoxious car alarm starts blaring. Branson swears, startled, and runs out the door.

“Whoops,” Crowley says flatly. Aziraphale glances at her briefly before picking up the books. He fidgets wordlessly, trailing his fingers along the spines. Crowley takes a deep breath. “Listen to me, angel.” She removes her sunglasses, which gets Aziraphale to look at her properly. She speaks each Word clearly and deliberately. “You. Are. Not. Going. To. Fall.”

Aziraphale’s lips part slightly, his eyes widening, his fingers tightening on his books. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

She sniffs, replacing her glasses. Pretending her face isn’t currently as red as her hair, she grabs her handbag and strides around the desk to head for the door. She also pretends not to be relieved when he follows.

“What a rotten stroke of luck,” Aziraphale says, entirely insincerely, when he observes the scene outside. A large tree has fallen onto the roof of a very nice and expensive Mercedes Benz. Branson is swearing and shouting. “I assume that’s _his_ vehicle?”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley smirks. “The wind’s been _biblical_ today.” The car is very much beyond repair. Crowley drags her hand along the hood of the Bentley before opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.

“I’ve got some champagne, if you’d like to stay for a bit.” Aziraphale comments as he gets into the car. “I’d hate for Mr Branson’s attitude to spoil the rest of your day.”

“Champagne?” Crowley teases as she starts the engine. “We celebrating your book acquisition then?”

Aziraphale pats the top of the pile. “One of these volumes completes a twelve-hundred-year-old collection, you know.”

The Bentley starts playing ‘Killer Queen’ and Crowley hopes Aziraphale doesn’t notice. “Champagne it is.”

Several hours later, when she’s delightfully tipsy and curled up on Aziraphale’s couch with her legs tucked underneath her, there’s a moment when she almost asks him if he wants to know about her Fall. But she doesn’t. To be known in that way, to share her experience in Words, would be intimate. She doesn’t want to rush into offering something she isn’t sure will be accepted.

-

This is probably a good time to further explain exactly how Proclamations work.

They’re usually a straightforward matter. A Proclamation made by an angel in Heaven is heard throughout all of Heaven. Were a Proclamation to be made in Hell, rather than being heard,* it would instead be _felt_ by all of the demons throughout Hell, the knowledge of it echoing in the hollow where their Word used to be. And Proclamations made on Earth are heeded _everywhere_, on Earth, in Heaven, and in Hell.

[*Apart from those few demons who retained the Word, of course – they would hear it perfectly.]

The exception to this range involves the Archangels.

There has been some debate about how the ranks were assigned and divided. Perhaps there were a smaller number of them first, and then the others added later. Or perhaps there were one-and-four, and then when two were lost, two more replaced them. Perhaps they were always seven. Or perhaps, as most of the occult-and-ethereal beings believe, they were seven because first there was the light; then there was the firmaments*; then there was the fecundity**; then there were the stars; then there was the fulfilment***; then there was the dominion****; and then there was the ascension.*****

[*Firmaments, being the barriers between the realms.]

[**Fecundity, being the announcement and propagation of fertility.]

[***Fulfilment, being the confirmation; the sacrament which gives physical representation to the intangible.]

[****Dominion, being the beasts and creatures; and concepts of what should be subdued.]

[*****Ascension, being the appointment of a representative while one takes rest.]

Of the Archangels there are seven: Lucifer; Michael; Gabriel; Raphael; Uriel; Sandalphon; and the Metatron.

When a Proclamation is made, whether it’s made on Earth, in Heaven, or in Hell, the archangels can hear those Words wherever they are, the resonance carrying across all the realms to reach them.

And so, when Satan makes a Proclamation from within the bowels of Hell – about a child who shall be the Antichrist; the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World, and Lord of Darkness – the Proclamation is heard at the uppermost level of Heaven by five archangels.

It’s also heard by one demon residing on Earth.

Crowley spends the rest of 1990 hiding in the upstairs flat above Aziraphale’s bookshop, hoping Satan’s Word is going to take another 6,000 – or 12,000, or ideally 100,000 – years* to gestate.

[*The gestation period lasts 17 years. This number is significant only because of the maths involved.]

Aziraphale doesn’t ask him what’s wrong but doesn’t send him away either. They celebrate the arrival of the new year with some fine wine, and Aziraphale beams when Crowley agrees to accompany him out for breakfast come dawn.

“Do you think,” Crowley says casually as he watches Aziraphale eat poached eggs, “we should get vacations?”

Aziraphale dabs a napkin at the corner of his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know. Time off work. Just to, have time. To ourselves. And not do our jobs.”

Aziraphale frowns at Crowley, with the sort of stern disapproval more common in the pre-Arrangement days. “We can’t _not_ do our jobs, Crowley. Don’t be ridiculous.” He busies himself with pouring more tea. “You said yourself years ago that it’s the paperwork keeping our relative sides satisfied. It may not matter which of us is completing the paperwork, but they’ll definitely notice if we stop submitting it altogether.” He takes a sip of tea, and his frown softens. “What’s brought all this on?”

Crowley looks down at his own napkin and starts slowly tearing it into strips. There are too many things he wants to say.

‘There’s another war coming.’ ‘They’ll want us to fight, and Gabriel will order you to smite me.’ ‘If Hell come for us, I _will_ use the Holy Water you gave me.’ ‘I’d rather we run away together, but you’d never give up like that.’ ‘You love living on Earth, with all your little indulgences, and I love living on Earth, with you.’ ‘We’ve been friends for nearly 6,000 years and you mean the world to me.’

He decides to voice none of these. When he doesn’t respond, Aziraphale continues with, “did you get given a…difficult assignment?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah.” Not yet. “Just thinking ahead.” If vacation time is unlikely, retirement is impossible. “What happens _after_ working the job until it’s done?” It probably _is_ ridiculous to think* he and Aziraphale might have time to themselves, together, one day.

[*Because demons aren’t supposed to hope or dream about things.]

Setting his cup back on the table, Aziraphale looks uncertain. “There’s always another job,” he insists, without much feeling.

“I suppose.” Crowley abandons his napkin and fiddles with his fork instead. It’s a fussy decorative set, with a swollen base so it can fit a picture on it, in this case some pots of gold. Crowley adds a demonic-looking leprechaun into the image and snickers.

Aziraphale presses his lips together and gets to his feet. “Speaking of, I should probably get back to the bookshop. Sell some books and that.”

“Sell?!” Crowley jolts upright. He’s said something wrong and upset Aziraphale.* He hastens to fix it. “I’ll owe you for breakfast! We could get lunch! Next week?”

[*Aziraphale isn’t aware of Crowley’s internal ruminations. There’d been a not-so-wonderful editorial column in the latest issue of the Celestial Observer, running a feature on tales of demonic defeats. Their first story retold the victory of the cherub Sachiel, who’d slaughtered the demon Belphegor. Belphegor was prone to sloth and hoarded wealth and had only been distracted for a moment by the golden light cast off Sachiel’s wings, allowing the arrow bolt to strike home. Needless to say, Crowley’s recent behaviour had drawn some distressing parallels, and Aziraphale is trying his best not to imagine scenarios in which Crowley is slain by an angel.]

There’s a brief flicker of fond surprise and Aziraphale smiles at him. “Oh, yes, that would be…I accept.”

Crowley will just do his best to put the Proclamation out of his mind and get back to work. There’s still time left. And until then, what else is there to say?

-

**Author's Note:**

> -
> 
> An honourable mention to tartan-thermos, whose tumblr post about Crowley working with British counterintelligence during WW2 was everything I ever wanted.
> 
> The gestation period: Book!Good Omens was first published in 1990; TV!Crowley delivers the Antichrist to Tadfield in 2007.
> 
> -


End file.
